


Interlude 2: The Hound

by ManicMoose



Series: The Scientific Method [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender Issues, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, POV John Watson, References to Miscarriage, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: To John’s complete bewilderment, Sherlock carries on behaving in his newly cagey manner over the next several weeks; clingy and tactile one minute and holed up in his bedroom for hours on end the next. John heavily suspects that it has something to do with Irene Adler’s sudden and un-spoken of departure. Whenever he attempts to broach the topic, however, Sherlock shuts it down immediately.Even more curious is Sherlock’s frequent aborted attempts at… something.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a touch of writers block on this one, so it took a bit longer than expected- but now here we are! We're back to John's POV for a short while, for a bit of a rehash of the last few chapters of [Amalgamation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10822128/chapters/24012810), just to get a little bit of an inside few on the other half of the rampant miscommunication. A massive thank you to the lovely Miss_Communication, for betaing this for me! Having a second set of eyes has made posting this so much easier and less stressful- you're the best!

To John’s complete bewilderment, Sherlock carries on behaving in his newly cagey manner over the next several weeks; clingy and tactile one minute and holed up in his bedroom for hours on end the next. John heavily suspects that it has something to do with Irene Adler’s sudden and un-spoken of departure. Whenever he attempts to broach the topic, however, Sherlock shuts it down immediately.

Even more curious is Sherlock’s frequent aborted attempts at… _something._

It takes a few instances for John to notice, given Sherlock’s mercurial nature and absurdly inconsistent attention span. Every so often, (generally following another failed attempt on John’s behalf at addressing the mystery of Irene Adler) the detective turns his eye on John rather intensely before making as if to announce something. John always braces himself for some cutting remark, or wildly offensive diatribe, only to be left entirely flummoxed when Sherlock instead flushes and stammers some obvious last-minute fabrication, instead of whatever it was he’d _meant_ to say.

John can’t imagine what on earth he’s on about, but whatever it is… if _Sherlock_ is embarrassed about it, he’s not sure he _wants_ to know.

 

* * *

 

“Have you seen my blue jumper anywhere?” He calls out to Sherlock as he rummages fruitlessly through the landing cupboard. “You know,” he elaborates, “the one with the stripes.”

When there’s no reply forthcoming, he makes his way to the kitchen doorway to check if Sherlock’s still absorbed in the experiment he’d been working on when John had gone up to get ready. Sherlock looks up from his microscope and sweeps his eyes over John in that calculating manner that always makes him squirm awkwardly in his own skin.

“Ah yes. _That_ jumper,” Sherlock dismissively resumes peering through his microscope. “I binned it.”

“You what?!”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d have much use for what was left of it. I borrowed it for an experiment I was running testing the level of protection provided to human flesh by the natural fibers of wool against various acids.” Sherlock clucks his tongue disparagingly as he adjusts the focus of the microscope and notes something in the notebook on his right. “Not very much it turns out.”

“Damn it Sherlock! How many bloody times do I have to tell you to stay the hell out of my things?” He growls in frustration “Is it really that difficult of a concept for you to grasp, that not _everything_ in this flat belongs to you?!”

“Oh no _,_ you’ve made that really _quite_ clear,” Sherlock spits back with an inexplicably disproportionate amount of bitterness, then stops to draw in a harsh breath through his nose before continuing on in a suddenly cool, but placid manner. “And besides, it hardly matters what you wear in any case,” he shrugs offhandedly.

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” John demands thunderously. Sherlock lets out an irritated huff and slaps his notebook shut, giving up on whatever the hell he’s doing with his goddamn microscope for the time being. Propping his elbows on the tabletop, he presses his palms together, prayer-like in front of his chest and angles his chin up at John haughtily.

“Well seeing as her interest in you lies primarily in your status as an Alpha doctor, your appearance is little more than a pleasant fringe benefit. Frankly, you could show up in a clown suit and she wouldn’t be deterred,” Sherlock sneers and John finds himself taking an involuntary step backward in surprise. Sherlock’s always been casually disdainful of the women John’s dated, but there’s a flash of spite in his eyes this time that John’s never seen before.

“She’s tired of working as a secretary and wrongly assumes that, as a doctor, you must be well enough off to keep her. She also happens to be carrying on a rather lacklustre affair with her married boss and resents the amount of time he spends with his wife, so either way she’ll happily take you to bed if only to get a bit of her own back,” Sherlock clicks his tongue sharply on the final consonant, and stares up at John defiantly.

But there’s nothing for John say to all that. He certainly isn’t about to ask for the usual explanation on how, exactly, Sherlock’s deduced all of this. And telling him off will only vindicate his obvious compulsion to alienate others as a defense mechanism.

With little more than a growl he turns on heel, snatches his black jacket from the wardrobe, and yanks it on before storming down the stairs.

Maybe this time, for _once_ , Sherlock will be wrong.

 

* * *

 

Of course he bloody isn’t.

Michelle is just as fit and bubbly as he recalls her being at the pub, but even _he_ can piece together what it is that she’s after with all the seemingly innocent questions she asks about his career, and the number of none-too-subtle hints that she drops.

It doesn’t help the situation in the slightest that the entire meal, his mind stays hopelessly fixated on Sherlock, rather than the beautiful woman sitting across from him. He hasn’t the foggiest what it was that put such a bee in Sherlock’s bonnet this time, but that glimpse of bitterness he’d caught in Sherlock’s eyes leaves him shaken.

He’s determined to stick it out anyways; part sheer stubbornness, part desperation. If he isn’t given to making crap choices, after all, then his name isn’t John H. Watson.

So what if she’s only interested in him because of his job, or for a bit of a revenge shag? At least he’ll get a leg over, which Lord knows he needs. If there’s anything that might help his traitorous brain with its fixation on Sherlock, it’s that.

Un-bloody-likely, but there’s a _chance_.

If Michelle notices his distraction at all, she doesn’t comment on it, happily chattering on about... well, he has absolutely no idea what. He forces himself to focus on her words, only to discover she’s in the middle of what—  he assumes from her giggles—  is a particularly humorous story about her boss.

 _She also happens to be carrying on a rather lacklustre affair with her married boss_ , he hears Sherlock’s smug voice echo inside his head, and he sips deeply at his wine to hide his wince.

 

* * *

 

Naturally, when she inevitably invites him back to hers after dinner, he agrees.

She excuses herself to the loo as soon as they get in, which gives him entirely too much time to fidget alone in her sitting room, desperately trying to ignore the leaden weight in his gut. He halfheartedly welcomes the snog she initiates when she finally joins him on the sofa, trying his damnedest to convince himself that the overwhelming sense of wrongness is nothing more than nerves.

 _It’s just been too long since you’ve taken anyone to bed,_ he tells himself firmly, willing himself to think of anything but the last person that he _did_.

When she slips her hand down to the front of his jeans to palm his oddly disinterested prick, he knows for certain there’s absolutely no way that he can go through with this.

She rubs against it, undeterred, but regardless of the pleasant, coaxing pressure, his body remains frustratingly unaroused. His mind keeps comparing her small, dainty hands to long-fingered, masculine ones. Which starts him thinking of long, pale limbs, spread out underneath him; sharp cheekbones and dark curls; deep, baritone moans spilling from plush lips in the dark.

 _That_ , on the other hand, gets his prick interested.

She purrs with approval and presses in closer against his chest, sliding her mouth down to nip at his jawline. He catches her scent then; light, sweet and somewhat floral. Perfectly lovely.

Except for the fact that it’s also completely and utterly _wrong._

It makes everything Alpha inside of him recoil in revulsion, his cock immediately going soft as he fights against the urge to gag.

There’s nothing for it but to quickly make his excuses and leave.

He takes the tube rather than a cab, allowing himself the extra time to panic. If it wasn’t before, it’s undeniable now; in spite of his best efforts, he’s well and truly _gone_ on Sherlock bloody Holmes. Because _of course_ he had to go and fall completely, hopelessly in love with the _one_ person who’s entirely out of the question. _Well done Watson._

Christ, but he’s a mess.

This isn’t what he’d signed up for when he’d agreed to Sherlock’s heart-stopping proposition; he’d never agreed to irrevocably change his life like this.

 _Sure you did,_ his own voice berates him mercilessly inside his head. _What in the hell did you honestly_ think _was going to happen? That you’d be able to share a heat with Sherlock, have him in every possible way you could think of, and then what? Go back to normal?_

_Right mate, good one._

_You knew this was going to happen, and you did it anyways. Because you_ wanted _him._

 _“Fuck!”_ He shouts, bending forward to cradle his head in his hands and tug ruthlessly at his hair. The older woman sitting across from him startles, shooting him a scandalized look across the carriage. “Sorry, sorry,” he offers, shamefaced, before he gets up and makes his way up the aisle to wait by the doors as they arrive at the next station.

It’s two stops too soon, but he gets off anyways and walks the rest of the way home.

 

* * *

 

When he gets arrives home to Baker Street, the screeching of Sherlock’s violin assaults his ears the moment he opens the street door. _Christ._ He spares a second to hope that Mrs. Hudson is out, and hasn’t been subjected to _that_ all evening, before he sets himself to stomping furiously up the stairs.

As he reaches the landing, the unholy racket cuts off abruptly, Sherlock pausing his abuse of the poor instrument to turn and stare at him expectantly. He stands in the doorway, trembling slightly and stares back.

The sudden silence hangs heavy between them, only the harsh sound of his own breathing and the crackle of the fire in the grate filling the emptiness. For a beat, he’d like nothing more than to lay into the detective; to vent all his anger and frustration, to demand _why_.

 _You_ must _have seen how I felt about you... how I’ve always felt. You see_ everything. _Did you even realize what it would do to me? Did you_ care _?_

But there’s something oddly vulnerable in Sherlock’s eyes that stops him.

He gives himself a hard inward shake as he realizes what he’s doing. The angry Alpha entitlement he’s allowing to simmer away below his surface. He’s no right to put any of this on Sherlock. He’d warned John, that very first night on Northumberland Street, that this sort of thing wasn’t his area. And the mystery of Irene Adler notwithstanding, he’s certainly never given John any reason to believe otherwise.

No; it's not _Sherlock’s_ fault that John went ahead and made the mistake of falling in love with him.

So he says nothing. With a long, shuddering breath of defeat, he turns and makes his way up to his bedroom.

The bloody jumper on the other hand is definitely mad bastard's fault.

It isn’t until he gets up to his room that the violin starts up again; soft, and achingly beautiful this time, instead of the discordant screeching of before. He tries desperately to cling to his anger and resentment, but his resolve quickly melts away under the warmth of the unspoken apology carrying up the stairs.

Despite his heavy heart, when he finally drifts to sleep some time later, it’s with the shadow of a smile on his lips.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them mentions the night before the following morning, but there’s an easy, tacit truce between them. And that afternoon, for whatever reason, Sherlock surprises John and Mrs. Hudson both by inviting her up for tea, over which he imperiously announces his decision to quit smoking. John can’t imagine what brought on this sudden change, but he’s not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

Of course, the endeavour to actually _keep_ Sherlock from buying cigarettes is easier said than done.

It’s Mrs. Hudson who suggests the idea of paying every seller in a two-mile radius, which seems entirely impossible to John at first, but in the end turns out to be a simple matter of texting Mycroft. Apparently the release of additional funds from Sherlock’s trust fund, outside of his monthly allowance is perfectly acceptable for the purpose.

The only condition of the exception is that John accompany Sherlock on his rounds, in order to ensure that none of the funds are _reallocated_ for anything untoward _._ Which seem frankly a bit accusatory in John’s opinion, but Sherlock kicks up surprisingly little fuss over it, so John holds his tongue.

And if the realization that Sherlock’s trust fund can accommodate the bribery of dozens as John’s pocketbook might the purchase of an icelolly is hardly _shocking,_ given the bespoke suits he swans about in day to day, it’s still a bit… _jarring_.

But in any case, the campaign proceeds swimmingly, with only the minimum number of meltdowns one might expect. At least until the dearth of cases drags on and Sherlock starts climbing the walls in boredom.

The afternoon that Sherlock bursts into the flat covered in pig’s blood, John know’s it’s come to a head. With Lestrade, or even Mycroft, unable to offer up any suitable distractions, he’s dreading the worst, and in short order. So when Henry Knight shows up and faints in their sitting room, John’s never been more pleased to see a basket case in his _life._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the _massive_ delay on this one! I went away on much-needed vacation for a few weeks, during which I'd intended to do plenty of writing... and then my phone bit the dust right on the first day. We decided to just enjoy a disconnected trip (I high recommend it- it's surprisingly fun!) rather than replacing it, and I ended up doing my writing the old-fashioned way in a notebook. Of course, once we got home life continued on being the usual hectic tizzy that we'd needed a break from to begin with. It took a little time to settle back into the swing of things and make the time to type up everything I'd written, then cobble together into something I was satisfied with. But now it's finally done (and so is the next chapter, save for editing)! Thanks for all of the lovely comments and kudos thus far and for sticking along for the ride, despite my abysmal time-keeping skills!
> 
> And thanks as always to my amazing beta, Miss_Communication, for being an absolute rockstar and magically proofreading this for me overnight, before I even got around to letting her know it was done! She made some wonderful suggestions and I'm so very grateful! <3

John pointedly ignores the warm, embarrassingly _fuzzy_ feeling that he gets in his chest as he and Sherlock make their way to Devon.

He should really be put out by the fact that he somehow ends up lugging about _Sherlock_ ’s bags as well as his own, but try all he'd like, he’s unable to deny the absurd tingle of Alpha pleasure. Something about taking care of both their things and herding Sherlock about, undeniably feels like nothing so much as one of the little mini-breaks he’s taken over the years with girlfriends past.

When they arrive John tries to balance the scales a little by pointedly settling into the passenger seat of their hired car, but the tiny pleased smile Sherlock shoots him —  as if John’s granted him some privilege —  only makes it worse. He’d been so _sure_ that he’d be able to keep rein over the sudden surge of alpha impulses after their inadvisable tumble into bed. But between the mess with Irene Adler, and Sherlock’s odd behaviour throughout, his control has only grown flimsier by the day.

The only small mercy is that Sherlock hasn’t yet read him like a book and promptly delivered a scathing rejection with which to remedy his foolish infatuation. He stares out the window at the countryside, desperately trying to keep it all hidden beneath the surface.

By the time they make it to the village all John wants is a pint, a shower, and a kip. Preferably in that order.

Sherlock swans inside, turning his collar up against his cheekbones in that way that makes him look mysterious and irresistible just as they walk past a group of young alphas by the car park. More than a few of them glance Sherlock’s way, and it puts John’s teeth on edge. Beneath the mask of mild amusement that he deliberately plasters over his face, he struggles to repress the humiliating impulse to turn and snarl territorially in their direction. Sherlock buys into his facade completely and pinkens charmingly before offering up a weak excuse about the cold. Despite the lanky detective’s insistence otherwise, he clearly feels _some_ instinctual urges.

Just not toward _John_.

 

* * *

 

If he hadn’t already been in need of a drink and a nap, the headache of checking in would more than do the trick.

The moment the cheerful beta and omega pair who run the inn greet them, they mistake he and Sherlock for bondmates as well, and immediately set to fussing over the ‘mix up’ of their reservation. He supposes he should have expected as much, as they but they’ve never travelled outside the city before, and he clearly hadn’t thought it through.

John winces internally as the beta, Gary, fiddles anxiously with the computer and frets over their being booked in for a twin instead of a double.

“Oh no, we're not - uh,” he stammers in reply when Gary apologetically informs him that they haven’t any doubles available for a few days.

 _Fuck._ They hadn’t discussed this.

Normally he'd just bluntly inform the mistaken party of their error with his usual refrain of “I’m not his Alpha”, but out here… Well, it isn’t exactly _normal_ for an unbonded omega to be travelling with an unrelated alpha. While Gary certainly _seems_ friendly enough, it's still the countryside, and the last thing he wants right now is to deal with some dramatic moralizing and being tossed out on their arses. He looks to Sherlock for help, only to find the berk has already wandered away to nose about the pub.

Is this one of the instances when Sherlock distinctly _doesn’t_ want to present as a pair so that he can easily use himself as bait if need be? The posturing in front of the pack if young alphas in the car park would suggest that possibility… but then the detective smells more like John than their usual flatmate scent-mixing, so he's probably slipped something of John's on underneath his clothes. Without discussing it.

_Again._

It really would be so much easier if he'd just spell things out for John _before_ they set out, instead of always expecting John to effortlessly read his invisible unpredictable cues. A simple ‘ _John, for this case I need you to pretend to be bondmates for cover’_ would suffice. For someone so otherwise demanding Sherlock is always so recalcitrant when it comes to this.

The back of his neck prickles as he shifts restlessly from one foot to the other. His own feelings on the subject certainly don’t help matters. He hates how much he _likes_ it when people mistake them for a couple. It has his alpha side puffing up with pride and possessiveness, despite the best efforts of his more logical side.

“That's fine— ” John coughs.

_Sod it._

If Sherlock isn't going to give him direction than he's just going to make the executive decision, and too bad if the detective had other plans in mind. “We— we’re not… we’ll, uh, manage.”

He hands over the cash for his pint and draws the pair into a bit of affable small talk. They play into his hands flawlessly: cheerfully informing him all about the dangers of Baskerville and the surprisingly fortuitous appearance of the mysterious demonic hound.

“What with the monster and that ruddy prison,” Billy shudders, “I don’t know how we sleep nights. Do you, Gary?”

“Like a baby,” the alpha declares as he palms his mate’s shoulder and beams down at him with indulgent affection. Clearly the man is well accustomed to his mate’s theatrics.

“That’s not true,” Billy contends, turning back to saucily inform John that Gary is, in fact, a snorer. The alpha squawks in good-natured embarrassment and shushes his mate, who continues on blithely. “Is yours a snorer?” he cheekily prompts John.

_No, but he has this little snuffle..._

The reply pops up inside of John’s head before he can even give it any conscious consideration. He catches himself quickly, before he can follow that train of thought too far along, and gives himself a good firm jolt. _Right then,_ he chides with a wince, _that’s quite enough of that, Watson._

He shoots an awkward smile across the bartop and pointedly changes the subject.

“Got any crisps?”

 

* * *

 

John falls into a light doze during Sherlock’s turn in the shower, and the next thing he knows he’s being unceremoniously shaken awake and ushered out to the car. As he begins to wake up properly, his nose twitches over the scent that's suffused the cab. Strange that he missed it before, on their way in.

“Oh, I thought you hired the car— you never said it was Mycroft's.”

“I _did_ ,” Sherlock smirks cryptically, “and it isn’t.”

“But…” John scents the air thoroughly in confusion. No, he's definitely not mistaken. “It absolutely _reeks_ of Mycroft in here. You’re just having me on, aren’t you? I swear to g — ” He bobs his head about as he sniffs, trying to pinpoint the providence of the scent. As he turns toward the driver’s side, the abrupt realization of just _where_ the scent is coming from hits him, alongside the wave of scent. He gapes up at Sherlock with a start. “It’s you!”

“It is,” Sherlock tips his head toward John in confirmation.

“How the hell… You smell just like him!” John exclaims, then flushes, “I mean, obviously you _always_ do, a bit, in the familial way. But this... you smell like an _Alpha._ ”

Sherlock casts a surprised glance over at John before returning his attention to the road. “You don't like it,” he announces with surprise.

“I didn’t say— ” John starts, then catches himself abruptly. It’s best that he consider his next words carefully, before something incriminating trips off his tongue. He feels the creep of heat across his cheeks as he fixes his gaze on nothing especially particular through the windscreen. “I mean, I suppose… I’m just used to you smelling like an om— like _you_. It’s a bit weird, is all.”

“Ah,” Sherlock hums impassively, then pipes up again after a beat in what John recognizes as his coolly detached ‘scientist voice’. “The sudden introduction of the scent of a potential alpha rival where before there was an Omega dep-”

_God, not that Alpha-Omega bollocks again._

“No,” John cuts him off before he can spout off any more of that rubbish. “It’s not _that._ I just— I _like_ your scent. It's nice.” _Well, there goes avoiding saying incriminating._ “Mycroft’s, on the other hand, not so much,” he adds lamely in an attempt to detract his confession.

 _Oh_ _yeah, excellent save Watson,_ John cringes internally, _really thorough._

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks rapidly in response, awkward silence stretching out between them as the minutes tick by without him saying anything further. John's just beginning to seriously contemplate throwing himself out of the moving vehicle and making his own way back to London when Sherlock suddenly breaks the silence with a sudden flood of words.

“It’s a synthesized reproduction of Mycroft’s scent; a formulation of my own design. Incredibly useful for getting into places normally off-limits to omegas. I originally devised it in university, to enable myself to safely loiter in… less than savoury places.”

 _Less than savoury…_ it takes John a moment to connect the dots, but then the realization crashes into him like a lorry.

_Oh._

He generally tries not to think about the drugs; to picture Sherlock as one of the sad, desperate junkies he dealt with in A&E during his residency. Thankfully it doesn’t come up often, despite his and Mycroft’s established protocol for ‘danger nights’.

But now he can't think of anything but.

Even for those piteous young alphas and betas he’d treated, that sort of lifestyle had been rife with dangers. His stomach turns as he considers the risks that Sherlock had subjected himself to; the things that easily could have happened to a young _o_ _mega_ , insensate and helpless under the influence of the drugs.

John processes that thought and feels an itch of rage begin just under his skin. Retroactive rage at anyone who might have conceivably _thought_ of hurting Sherlock.

“So you could hang about drug dens without being sexually assaulted, you mean,” he growls.

“It sounds so _sordid_ when you put it that way,” Sherlock protests with a childish wrinkle of his nose. Like it was nothing. Just a silly little game. “But _yes_. Of course, once I was clean, I realized that it had far more promising applications for my work. Mycroft positively _abhors_ it, but even he can agree that the alternative is significantly worse. I’ve also crafted an entirely synthetic generic Beta version, which is especially effective in situations when I want to go unnoticed.”

“That’s brilliant; it really is. You never cease to amaze me,” John comments as he rolls down his window. The crisp countryside air is an immediate relief from both the overpowering stench of Alpha and the retroactive, protective anger simmering inside him. He sucks in a deep lungful of it gratefully. “But did you have to use so _much?_ ”

“It’s commonplace for alpha’s attempting to seem more authoritative to use scent enhancers. When it’s applied heavily it’s mistaken for that, and disregarded without further thought. In the unlikely case that they _do_ pick up a hint of my own diminished scent beneath the artificial one, they’ll assume it’s the scent of a bond. I’m sure I wouldn’t pull anything over on a perfumer or pheromonist, but the general populace is hardly so discerning.”

Sherlock casually rattles off about alphas trying to enhance their authoritative presence with scent enhancers and the tidy loophole they’ve apparently created for him to willfully exploit. He excitedly details how it even provides the cover of an implied bond for his own scent should it be detected somehow, but John’s mind remains caught up on the first bit.

“Wait,” John frowns, a sudden suspicion coming over him that Sherlock has once again neglected to tell him something important. “What are we doing that you need to smell like an authoritative alpha?”

 

* * *

 

Try as he might, he can’t find it in him to even be irritated with Sherlock over their infiltration of Baskerville.

It's _fun._

He hasn't pulled rank in ages, and it's just as much of a rush as he remembers it being. Better even, because he's never done it in front of Sherlock before. He's man enough to admit he feels a little thrill of Alpha pride; showing off for _his_ Omega. He doesn't miss the small, sidelong glance Sherlock shoots his way as he does it. It has him drawing himself up a little straighter.

And of course, Sherlock suddenly solving the mystery of the little girl’s missing bunny-rabbit is a delightfully surprising turn of events. It’s always endearing to glimpse Sherlock’s well-hidden softer side, and the way he pulls clues and a solution to the mystery out of thin air like… well, a rabbit out of a hat, is nothing short of marvelous.

He’s so delighted by the endeavour and caught up in Sherlock’s wild enthusiasm for the case that he doesn’t see the harm in taking Henry out for a bit of a night-time jaunt out on the moors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a two for one weekend! Since I took far, far longer with this installment than I'd ever meant to, I've decided not to hold off with this final chapter. Miss_Communication delivered a lightening-fast beta on this one for me so that I could get this up tonight, so three cheers for her! Any remaining errors/gross grammatical offenses are mine and mine alone.

By the time he’s settled Henry down and feels comfortable leaving him on his own, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Not that John’s particularly surprised. It’s par for the course, really. The moment that any vulnerable human element arises is generally when Sherlock tends to vanish into thin air. He makes his way back to the inn unbothered, enjoying refreshingly cool night air with its pleasant hint of woodsmoke from somewhere off in the distance.

As expected, Sherlock’s comfortably ensconced in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, staring contemplatively into the flames as he cradles a tumbler of amber liquid. John settles into the vacant armchair alongside the preoccupied detective, and sets to filling him in on Henry's well-being (not that Sherlock gives a damn), and the mysterious morse signal that he’d spotted earlier on the moor.

He’s just in the midst of suggesting that they begin investigating the comings and goings of the larger housepets in the area when Sherlock interrupts him with the rather startling announcement that he too had caught a glimpse of Henry’s demon hound. John hardly knows how to respond the the admission. Of all the people on earth, he’d never expected _Sherlock_ to fall victim to this sort of hysteria. But fall victim he has, if his sudden outburst of melodramatic rot is anything to go by.

It seems a bit of an overreaction for having a bit of a fright, but if there’s one thing that Sherlock _is_ given to after all, it’s a flair for the dramatic.

“Yeah, all right, Spock,” he holds his palms up placatingly, “just… take it easy. You’ve been… pretty _wired_ lately, you know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up.”

“Worked... _up?_ ” Sherlock repeats incredulously, and John attempts to barrel on.

“It was dark and scary…”

“ _Me?!_ “ Sherlock explodes. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with me! I’m just— ” His eyes widen almost comically as he catches himself, cutting off abruptly as he nearly hyperventilates. Before John can even coach him through it, he brings his fingers up to press against his temples, and begins to try and moderate his breathing.

”Sherlock...” John goggles over at him, more than a touch inclined to start panicking himself at the sight of Sherlock so unsettled. His mind rapidly conjures the worst of potential conclusions to Sherlock’s outburst, and his world tilts precariously on its axis. _Is Sherlock using again? Is he ill? Is it treatable?_ “You’re just what?”

“Yes. Well… um,” Sherlock shifts in his chair restlessly before taking a long, shaky breath. “I have reason to be more concerned for my safety than I used to be.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John prompts in trepidation as the growing tension unleashes a flurry of butterflies in his stomach. Sherlock clears his throat weakly and starts again.

“I may have neglected to share some relevant news with you regarding my… current condition.”

“Your current con— ” John frowns, drawing his brows together as he turns the word over in his mind. His blissful ignorance only lasts the barest of moments before his heartbeat slows to a sickening crawl as realization slowly creeps over him like ice through his veins. “Sherlock, are you saying that you’re… you’re…”

He can’t bring himself to say it.

His eyes involuntarily trail down to Sherlock’s innocuously flat abdomen as if drawn by a magnet. Though his logical mind knows it’s unchanged appearance is utterly meaningless at this stage, if the very thing he’s dreading is true, he clings desperately to that thin thread of hope regardless. Sherlock’s eyes fall shut, a hint of pink blooming along his cheekbones as he lets out two strangled syllables.

“Pregnant.”

“Oh.” John hears himself utter, as if from a great distance. The bottom of his stomach feels as though it’s attached to a lead weight.

He’d been so relieved that night, when he’d returned home from the pub to find the flat empty of consulting detectives and dominatrixes both. As if they needed Sherlock’s bedroom to…

 _You idiot,_ a voice sneers inside his head, sounding remarkably like Sherlock. _Did you honestly think that they were somehow incapable of fucking outside the confines of the flat?_

Clearly they’d just slipped off to somewhere a bit private—  and pesky flatmate free. Probably somewhere decadent, and indulgent, and perfectly befitting of their combined posh perfection.

He can picture them perfectly in his mind’s eye, as much as he'd prefer not to. Pale, lithe limbs tangled together, writhing about on sheets that cost more than John’s monthly salary. The alpha side of himself rattles the bars of its cage, gnashing its teeth and roaring with fury at the very thought of it. It wants nothing more than to hunt Irene Adler down and tear her apart.

He hadn’t realized it at the time, but in hindsight, her visit had perfectly aligned with Sherlock’s cycle. If he’d neglected to resume his suppressants after the heat he’d spent with John, as he obviously _had_.

No wonder Sherlock had been so… _tactile_ of late.

What John had mistaken an insecure need for comfort had been nothing more than misplaced nesting instinct. And now that was going to end, _everything_ was going to end, because Sherlock was going to leave to go join Irene, wherever the hell she was. And John was going to be alone again; all the joy and excitement and _colour_ gone out of his life.

When Sherlock peers up at him expectantly, he realizes he’s in no way acknowledged Sherlock’s momentous announcement. With a pained swallow, he licks his lips and mumbles the obvious:

“So then you… ah… with Irene, then?”

“I understand if you— _What?_ ” Sherlock cuts off his own mincing speech with a startled squawk. His eyes snap up to gape at John, utterly appalled. “ _Irene?_ You think that I _…_ with _Irene Adler?_ ”

John stares back, entirely thrown by the reaction.

“ _No_. Irene and I _never…_ absolutely _not,”_ Sherlock grimaces and shakes his head with vehement distaste. “When you, ah— _assisted_ me. With my heat. There may have been some, or rather, I suppose, _a_ singular …unintended consequence.”

After a beat, Sherlock’s words sink in, and John’s brain grinds to a complete and utter halt.

His stomach swoops in an entirely different manner than just moments before, and he goggles at Sherlock in total disbelief.

“You mean… it’s _mine?_ ”

“Yes.” Sherlock confirms with a clipped nod, smoothing a hand down his front nervously, his trembling hand lingering ever so slightly over his navel as he adds, “Twelve weeks along, approximately. You’re as aware as I am of the window of conception.”

“Oh my god...” John breathes with complete and utter wonderment as his heartbeat ratchets up to a rabbit's pace.

“John, you _must_ understand,” Sherlock begins insistently, a warbling edge in his voice giving away his anxiety. “I didn’t mean to —  I didn’t inform you sooner only because…” He trails off, squirming in his chair for a few tense moments before taking a long, deep breath. “I realize we agreed that it was an experiment and nothing more, but… I’ve found myself undeniably defensive of the… of _it_ , and I— I found I was unable to take the risk that you… you might leave.”

“You thought I’d leave so that you’d…” John can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, his throat instinctively closing up at the thought. Sherlock clearly feels the same bone-deep horror; dark eyelashes fluttering down against pale cheeks.

“Miscarry, yes. A prolonged separation from the pheromones of the siring alpha prior to the the third trimester results in spontaneous termination in approximately ninety-seven percent of cases.”

“I’m well aware, yeah. As I keep reminding you, I _am_ a doctor. Sherlock…” John rubs at his eyes, suddenly feeling more than a bit overwhelmed. “I wouldn’t just — but you… you _had_ to have realized you wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret for very long.”

“Of course not. My research indicated that it would be near impossible to conceal past the scent change at fourteen weeks, and that was only if I didn’t start to show sooner, or if you didn’t piece it together yourself from the other symptoms. That had seemed especially likely, given that you are, indeed, a doctor. In fact, I rather hope your obliviousness isn't an overall reflection of your medical capabilities.”

“Oh, piss off!” John snaps back loudly, momentarily forgetting himself. When a few nearby diners look over interestedly, he realizes his slip. He leans forward sheepishly, lowering his volume to a harsh whisper. “It isn't as if you've got a bloody neon sign floating above your head announcing ‘I’m pregnant’. It’s not _that_ obvious unless you’re looking for it. And you were purposely trying to hide it from me!” He runs a hand through his hair in agitation.“Even though we... _that_ was the furthest thing from my mind! I mean…” he darts his eye about the room to ensure they don’t have an audience “we only did it without a condom _once!_ And with how long you’d been on suppressants for, the odds of us conceiving were downright infinitesimal.”

“Well, perhaps you should go buy a lottery ticket, _Dad,_ ” Sherlock bites back waspishly. “It was hardly as if I needed to put in great effort on my part to hide things from you, given how much time you’ve spent avoiding me.”

“I haven’t been _avoiding_ you,” John goggles in disbelief, “I was trying to be _respectful!_ I just—  I didn’t want you to think I was one of those Alphas who gets ideas just because we— ” _shared a heat,_ he finishes in his mind with a blush, embarrassingly aware of the people around them that might overhear. Not that they wouldn’t be able to put two and two together from the fact that their discussing Sherlock’s _pregnancy_ , but he hardly wants to provide all the salacious details. ”I just thought it would be better to give you space.”

“Space? I don’t need _space_ ,” Sherlock hisses vehemently. “And in any case, _you_ were the one that said it didn’t change things between us. That wasn’t exactly true was it?”

“Yeah, well, if it wasn’t before it certainly isn’t _now_ ,” John retorts with a pointed look at Sherlock’s navel.

“Mm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally while John’s eyes linger helplessly on the omega’s middle.

A _baby._

_Their baby._

It’s an unimaginably heady thought; that this very moment, his child is growing, right there, inside of Sherlock’s body.

_It’s amazing._

His Alpha goes from wrathful and bloodthirsty to puffed up and preening.

 _Irene Adler didn’t put a baby in Sherlock’s belly;_ he _did._

“You needn’t worry about providing for it,” Sherlock announces apropos of nothing, and John shakes himself out of his single-minded daze. “Being as I remain Mycroft’s Omega dependantens, any child that I bear will legally carry the Holmes name. While Mycroft might have battened down and found himself a mate eventually, if only to pass on the family name, I can’t imagine he’d bother if I were to... do the dirty work for him, so to speak. It would demand far too much of his time, and he does so _hate_ getting sweaty.”

“God, there’s a horrifying image,” John grimaces in a deliberate attempt to distract from the small burble of unease creeping up inside of him at the thought of _his_ child bearing another alpha’s name. _Sherlock’s name,_ he reminds the grumbling Alpha inside of him.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees with a dramatic shudder. “An alpha child would immediately become the next Holmes heir. And of course, should the child present as an Omega instead, they’d still want for nothing. So in either case, you needn’t be concerned, financially speaking.”

“I’m not,” John declares. And he honestly isn’t. It’s a simple matter, really. If he has a child, he’ll do whatever it takes to provide for them the best he possibly can; no question, no concern. His concerns are of a different nature entirely; insidiously brought to mind by the sudden reminder of Mycroft’s jurisdiction in their lives however.

“You’ve known since the Cavendish case, haven’t you? When I pointed out that Marie was probably pregnant, and you sort of… shut down.”

John rubs his palms against the fabric of his chair’s arms and stares down at the hearth as he thinks back on it; remembering the look of panic that had flickered briefly in Sherlock’s eyes before they’d gone carefully blank. The way he’d so suddenly and uncharacteristically _detached_ himself from the investigation and basically fled.

“I—  yes,” Sherlock admits haltingly. “I needed to confirm it at home, but… yes.”

So _that’s_ what he’d been doing in the loo that evening.

“ _Christ_ Sherlock! You kept it from me for _weeks!”_

“Yes, but I clearly indicated that I would have informed you bef— ”

“Why didn’t you trust me?” John bursts out. An awful, stomach-churning thought occurs to him, and the question is out his mouth before he can think better of it. “Would you have even told me at _all_ if you decided _not_ to keep it? Or would you have just left?”

He immediately regrets asking, and scrubs a hand over his face in embarrassment and anger. He’s hardly going to _give_ Sherlock reason to trust him by shouting at him and making accusations, now is he?

“God, forget I said that,” he sighs heavily. He forces down his own shame and lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock’s determinedly. If he’s ever had reason to use the skills of observation that Sherlock has taught him, the time is now. No matter what _he_ wants, no matter what makes his heart race and his Alpha posture proudly, he’s not going to do to Sherlock what’s been done to him his entire life. This is something that _Sherlock_ gets to decide on. Not John. “I just —  I need you to be _honest,_ Sherlock _._ Do you... do you actually want this?”

“I do believe that was implied by my hesitation to inform you.” Sherlock’s tone is his usual arrogant drawl, but his posture is forced and there’s a lingering tremor in his hands that he tries to disguise by clutching at his armrests. When his voice cracks slightly as he continues on, John’s observed all he that needs. “It’s a marvelous scientific opportunity that should no— ”

“You _do_ ,” John cuts him off, the sudden rush of bewildered amazement that breaks over him over him apparently washing his manners away with it. “You actually _want_ this baby.”

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stammers, his cheeks pinking endearingly with the confession.

“Okay,” John gives a curt, decisive bob of his head. That’s that then. A warm glow of wonderment blooms inside of his chest. “So we're going to have a baby then.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” Sherlock’s affected air of nonchalance slips to reveal the depths of anxiety just below the surface. He babbles onward apologetically, as if he thinks _he_ has anything to apologize for. “I know that it’s —  you must know John, that, despite my wanting to keep the child, I truly hadn’t at all meant for this to happen. I’ve no desire to... trap you. I’m well aware that there are certain beliefs about we omegas in this regard, but I don’t expect anything of you—  once the baby is born, you’re welcome to leave immediately if you so choose, and I’ll n— ”

Without consciously thinking about it, John finds himself reaching forward to place a staying hand on Sherlock’s bouncing knee. “Sherlock, _I’m_ the idiot who told you that you were almost certainly safe from conception, and then immediately proceeded to get you up the duff. So you _definitely_ don’t have to defend yourself.” It’s second nature to slide his hand further up along Sherlock's slim thigh and offer a reassuring squeeze. “If you want this baby, then we’re going to have this baby, and it’s going to be _brilliant_. You’re my best friend, and I’m happy to do this if it’s what you want to do. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” Sherlock blinks rapidly, staring down fixedly at John’s hand on his leg.

“I didn't even know you _liked_ kids,” John adds; part genuine wonderment, part distraction as he self-consciously pulls his hand back.

“Children are… objectively not uninteresting. They can, of course, be cruel and thoughtless,” Sherlock flutters the fingers of one hand in a small gesture of acknowledgment, “but I'm given to understand their behaviour is largely attributable to how they’re reared.” With a flippant shrug of his shoulders he adds; “Not unlike dogs really.”

John’s entirely helpless against the burst of slightly hysterical laughter bubbles up out of him at that. “Did you just compare children to _dogs_?”

“Well, I certainly have more experience with the latter than the former.”

And _that’s_ sobering thought if there ever was one.

“God, now that I think about it, it’s a bit mad, isn’t it?” John gives his head a disbelieving shake. “You and I raising a child? We’re hardly the most qualified of the lot.”

“Please, John,” Sherlock rolls his eyes dismissively. “Imbeciles have children all the time. In fact, I’d never thought of it before but, while the Philip Andersons of the world run about reproducing without thought, my own — arguably superior —  genes were destined to fall by the wayside until now. A child with my genetic material is unlikely to have anything below exceptional intelligence and you're not unintelligent yourself.”

“Oh, ta,” John interrupts with a wry grin. Trust Sherlock to slip in a backhanded compliment, even as he’s trying to win John over. Not that John isn’t already entirely on board but… well, there’s no harm in letting Sherlock work for it a bit.

Just to make sure he’s really thought things through.

“The point being— our child will be at an advantage straight out the gate, so to speak. And just _think_ John; it’s the ultimate, ever-evolving experiment! We’ll be able to document, first-hand, the effects of genetic disposition versus the learned behaviours, and — ”

Listening to Sherlock prattle on, John’s stomach sinks at the thought that perhaps Sherlock _hasn’t_ entirely considered the full implications of the situation. That this might just be another _experiment_ for him. Albeit, an incredibly invasive, demanding one.

But an experiment nonetheless.

“That's all very well and good Sherlock,” he ventures anxiously, “but you _do_ understand that they'll also be a _person_. You know, with a individual needs, and desires, and all that inconvenient stuff you hate about me.”

“I don't hate _anything_ about you,” Sherlock argues with a confused frown, as though John has just suggested something entirely preposterous.

“Oh,” John huffs for lack of a better reply, and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He wishes Sherlock wouldn't say things like that; give his stupid Alpha brain false hope. He knows that Sherlock doesn’t _mean_ anything by it; that the omega simply doesn’t _understand_ the effect of his words, but it still _hurts._

And perhaps Sherlock _does_ understand the hurt he causes, to some degree, because he falls silent for a few moments, staring thoughtfully out at John across the space between them. When he gives a small cough and picks up again, it’s endearingly clear he’s chosen his next words with more care.

“What I mean to say is that... It will be endlessly interesting to document what traits and behaviours they inherit from you, as opposed to myself. They may even exhibit a mixture of characteristics! And there are further possibilities based upon our input…” Sherlock trails off, his eyes fixating on a spot just past John’s shoulder and going momentarily vacant in the way they do on cases, when his mind is moving at lightspeed; extrapolating every possible outcome or theory.

When he looks up at John again the excitement in his gaze is positive palpable. “Just _imagine_ John! _My_ observational skills, paired with _your_ social graces — could be incredibly useful.”

The excitement is infectious, and John _feels_ it take root in him, spreading through his veins like high.

“Could be dangerous,” John contends with a grin, playfully alluding to that first breathless, exhilarating evening together, hunting a murderous cabbie through the heart of London.

“And yet here you are,” Sherlock parrots his own words from that night with a crooked little smile that makes John’s heart stutter in his chest.

He’s never really thought of it. Not really. It isn’t terribly alpha-like of him but, while finding a bondmate and starting a family has always lingered _vaguely_ in his mind, it’s never been anything more than an abstract idea. More obligation than objective.

But now, the fact that there’s a _life_ growing inside of Sherlock; one that’s a combination of the both of them is absolutely… well, he never knew that was something he wanted, but now that it’s happening he wants it so much it’s a little terrifying.

A little boy, or girl, with Sherlock's curls or his eyes; his infinite curiosity.

Though hopefully not his temperament, lord help them.

Regardless of the fact that Sherlock will never feel that way about him in return, John’s made peace with the fact that he’s absolutely fucking _gone_ on Sherlock Holmes. And, by god, he’ll take what he can get.

This… this is more than he could have ever _dreamed_ to ask for.

“Here I am,” John agrees wholeheartedly.

_Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one bites the dust! It was such a treat to flip back to John's perspective for a bit, and I hope you all enjoyed it! I will still need a good week or so to get the first chapter of the next installment ready to go, but rest assured I'll be working on it as much as I possibly can. Are you guys ready for these two fools to admit their feelings? Because I sure am!


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